A/N: This idea of Letters to Fred was originally thought up by the wonderful LettersToFred on Twitter. She's awesome, so if you have Twitter, follow her. I wrote and am continuing to write quite a few of these letters, which I have been posting here and on my blog - Underdone Potato (Half-Baked Episodes From My Life), but cannot take credit for the original idea. Thanks for reading, folks!

Dear Fred,

Today has been the hardest day since you passed away. It was your funeral. And I know you've been sat up there for the past few days yelling at me for being such an idiot, to man up and be braver. During all the planning sessions mum had for the service, I couldn't stay in the room, the table littered with fliers for flowers, headstones and coffins. I didn't have the strength to stay there and tell everyone that you didn't want rows of mourners, the overwhelming death-scent of lilies filling some stifling marquee or some stuffy old man talking about you as if he knew you. How dare some guy ever pretend that. I knew you. And through you I understood myself. But I couldn't speak up and say this. The only thing I was able to do was punch Harry for blaming himself for your death. Specky git. I told him you wouldn't want him stealing your thunder.

But the service went ahead, with lilies, and rows of mourners. Ron was able to say no to the guy who spoke at Bill and Fleur's wedding doing the funeral, though. Why couldn't I do that? Kingsley spoke instead. And bloody Ron stopped Kingsley in the service and he and Lee brought out loads of fireworks, and did the service how you would've wanted. He even inscribed "Mischief managed" on your headstone. I couldn't do this. I couldn't do anything. I just stood there and watched him take charge, like I should've done.

See? I need you here. I need you with me, Freddy. It's like you've died and taken every drop of Gryffindor bravery from me. I might as well be a Hufflepuff now. No, even that's too good. If I were a Hufflepuff at least my bloody loyalty would make me say something.

I don't know what I am, or who I am without you. And I know you're yelling at me to stop moping and start living both our lives in your place. But I can't, Fred! How am I supposed to function when there's only half of me left?

Help me,

George